


The ABCs of the Hamiltons

by Adverb_Slut



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Attempt at Humor, F/M, Gen, Romance, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:27:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26868130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adverb_Slut/pseuds/Adverb_Slut
Summary: Twenty-six oneshots, one for each letter of the alphabet, depicting different scenes from the lives of the Hamiltons.  Some will be cute, some angsty, I don't know yet, heh.  I really like slice of life stuff, so that too!The main pairing is Hamilton/Eliza but is itreallya sorta accurate depiction of Hamilton's life without some allusions to Hamilton/Laurens?C—Corn| An inebriated Hamilton buys "flowers" for Eliza.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler, also many hints to lams because honestly what is hamilton w/o several subtle hints to lams
Comments: 10
Kudos: 29





	1. A | Answer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliza really doesn't know what to make of Laurens' relationship with her husband.
> 
> THERE ARE PROBABLY A LOT OF HISTORICAL INCONSISTENCIES, I'M SORRY!!!

For a man who cheered the refrain "tomorrow they'll be more of us" with so much enthusiasm, John Laurens sure seemed to be utterly and completely content if the world was just him and Alexander Hamilton. 

Eliza sat in a Sleepy Hollow chair next to them as the pair—who reposed on one of the couches in the Hamiltons' parlor—looked deep in thought as they hunched over a letter, which, although was supposed to be sent off to Congress at once, had been mulled over for the better part of six hours. Their little fête had originally included Burr, Lafayette, and Mulligan, but as the afternoon settled to dusk, the party had dwindled till only Laurens remained. 

She suppressed a yawn and wondered at the unruly baby that sat in the crook of her arm, nursing a stick of gingerbread, if it was his bedtime. The only response to her unspoken question was a twinkling of his green eyes and a loud coo that startled the two men from their discussion on how important a misplaced comma would be in a written proposal to Congress.

John put down an empty jar of olives that he and Alexander had polished off a few minutes beforehand onto the coffee table and glanced at the clock. He bit his bottom lip before saying, "It's getting late. I should probably go."

Alexander put out a hand across John's legs to stall his departure. "No—stay."

It was as easy as that: John settled himself deeper into the cushions, smiled apologetically at Eliza, and once again hunched over the coffee table where the unfinished letter sat.

"I'm going to put Philip to bed," Eliza declared a moment later, propping her son's head against her shoulder and walking toward the bedroom.

Alexander's voice was absentminded as he called out, "Let me know if you need any help, my love."

She lowered Philip down into his bassinet, smiling at the name carved neatly into the front of it. For the nine months that little Philip had made his home in her womb, he was known to the family with but one name—John. Of course, it was chosen in honor of his father's best and closest friend. It seemed, even more, a fitting name when he was birthed, for, with his green eyes and freckled face, he seemed a spitting image of Laurens (and yet, Eliza's devotion to her husband was never called into question, bless you, she was too faithful). 

It was only until General Washington pointed out that it was far more proper for the firstborn son to take the name of one of his grandparents instead of someone outside of the family, that Alexander had conceded to call him Philip, instead.

It was only _after_ he had been christened with the name did Eliza realized that oh _God_ , how glad she was that they hadn't named their beloved son _John_.

If you asked her why, a prickly burr would sprout in her heart, but she'd tell you the truth: she didn't have an answer. 

She loved John Laurens like a brother. There were nights that her husband had stayed faithfully at Washington's side, and the only one that Alexander had trusted enough to keep his wife safe and accompanied when he himself couldn't was John. It wasn't too often that he stayed at the Hamiltons' residence with Eliza, for he had duties of his own to attend to, but whenever Alexander needed him, he was there. 

Some nights when the pain of not having her husband by her side felt less like a needle poking into her heart and more like a stake gouging into her chest, she'd creep into the parlor, and take out the green bandbox where she laid away treasures from a past life of splendor along with her precious letters from Alexander. She'd run her fingers across the castles and cathedrals he built for her with nothing but words and promises and declarations of love that made her face blush and her heart full. 

When he stayed, John slept in the closet next to the parlor, and, upon seeing candles lit outside his room, would often come to keep Eliza company, whether it be in the darkest hours of night or the early blossoming of dawn.

In the candlelight, Eliza could just see his expression as he watched her read. His mouth would twist into a benign smile, but his green eyes were as tumultuous as the sea during a storm. He'd say nothing most of the time, but one night, he pulled one of his chestnut curls before saying in one breath, "I've watched him when he wrote those letters, you know. He really loves you, Eliza."

Those _words_! Oh, those words were enough to make her heart soar, to make her believe that the sky _truly_ was the limit when it came to expressing her and Alexander's love for one another. And yet, there was something in his tone that made her chest feel heavy and caused her heart to sink like a stone.

... Why did John sound like instead of trying to convince Eliza of Alexander's love for her, he was trying to convince _himself_ of the fact? 

She didn't have an answer.

Eliza shook her head as she now heard John and Alexander now chuckling in the next room. Escaping the memory, she carefully pulled the blanket higher under Philip's chin and rocked the bassinet until his eyes closed with sleep. 

However, as she made her way back to the parlor, she found herself falling back into the same memory, before suddenly, an image conjured in her mind—a memory of Alexander, bent over his desk, his brow slick with sweat, and his eyes clouded with determination as he wrote stacks and stacks of letters toward the various people who afforded his time. His shoulders and countenance would relax immediately whenever she quietly tiptoed into his office to proffer him refreshment or to set his son on his lap, for young Philip dearly loved his father's company. 

But she then recalled that there were times when she would walk in and Alexander already would seem at ease, the lines on his face already smoothed out and his infectious smile already present, even though it grew wider at her arrival. She could only assume that the reason for such a bright expression came from the fully-inscribed letter on his desk. 

Eliza knew her husband wouldn't mind if she asked him who the letter was addressed to, but she was far too well-bred to inquire anything more than, "How do your letters go?"

To which he would answer, his eyes on his writing, but his voice warm, "Right now, they go fine."

Presently, she situated herself once more on the Sleepy Hollow chair, watching as her husband made some kind of crass joke at Congress' expense and John guffawed heartily, placing his hand on Alexander's back to steady himself.

He gestured toward Alexander's quill with a mischievous smile. "Write that down, write that down!"

Something beyond merriment flashed in her Alexander's eyes, and he fiddled with his quill as if contemplating if such dialogue was truly worth the trouble it would cause him if Congress were ever to actually read it. 

Eliza swallowed hard when she discerned a startling prospect as she stared at John and then at her husband's easy grin: she suddenly knew the answer as to who those letters that Alexander had taken so much time in reading and writing were addressed to. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed!
> 
> lmaoooooooo @ the irony that the hamiltons named one of their sons "john" later on. mayhaps eliza got over her mild disdain for the name?
> 
> **Feedback is always appreciated!**   
> 


	2. B | Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set directly after "Burn" in the musical but in Philip's perspective. I also reference some ideas from "First Burn," as well!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had too much fun writing this chapter, heheh. Also, sorry about no Lams in this chapter :( Laurens is dead in this chapter, obviously.
> 
> **Feedback is always appreciated!**

Philip could be accounted for as many things—rash, impulsive, intelligent, handsome, but there was one such trait that no one would ever dare attribute to him, a trait that neither he nor his father possessed—the trait of quiet. And yet, here he was, silent as a wraith as he haunted the hallway beside his parents' bedroom.

The other children fussed about the house, laying claim to housewifely tasks that their mother normally would have done—although today they sat neglected—with the desire that their mother needn't worry about anything with all she was dealing with at present. As the oldest, Philip had managed them as dutifully as he could for half an hour, noticing so carefully that in all their tasks, the children avoided the bedroom which their mother sat, as they were too nervous to bother her fragile composure.

Just a moment beforehand, he had been in his sister, Angelica's, room, for she was of delicate constitution and mind and was hit by all the troubles of the Reynolds Pamphlet almost as critically as their mother. He had whispered many words of comfort to her before he came away and stood sentinel outside the bedroom which his father and mother shared.

Philip bit his lip, before carefully peeling the door away from the frame and peeping inside. What lay on the other side of the threshold caused bile to rise up his throat.

There, sitting on the bench in front of the bed was his mother. Shoved, as if hastily, under the bed was a fine green bandbox, which usually sat enthroned for display on the shelves. In it, he knew, were elaborate broaches, fine rings, bejeweled necklaces that were heavier than the wearer, locks of babies' hair, and dozens and dozens of letters, all of which were signed with "Yours forever, Alexander Hamilton."

Said letters, now, were scattered in disarray on the ground, and he watched as his mother picked up letter after letter and guided each one into a flaming wastebasket at her feet.

Philip knew that if his mother possessed a disposition like him and his father, she would have burst out in a fit of righteous anger, swinging accusations and daggers, pistols and indictments—all in one fell swoop—before falling into a calm stupor that only tingled slightly with its previous ardor. As incensed as he was with what had transpired today, his own anger had yet to find true vent, and he had a feeling that it would all come out soon enough. 

He watched his mother now and saw that instead of a burst of ire, her anger was shown in every covert way imaginable. He observed it in the stiff lines of her movement, in the manner in which her toes curled into her feet, and in the way she sat lightly on the bench as if to maintain the guise of composure. Her eyes were the most telling. Usually shiny with mirth and sweetness, the black depths now smoldered like two lumps of burning coal that could not be extinguished even with the most desperate of tears. 

Summoning all the courage he required, Philip walked toward her, but his mother's gaze barely shifted from the inferno.

Boys of fifteen are quick to assert their rights and behave altogether abominably and impetuously, but Philip was careful never to show the reckless side of his nature toward his mother, and the decision did not change as he sat down on the bench next to her.

He was silent for a moment, before remembering that Angelica's worries had been allayed with comforting words, as well as copious amounts of beef tea and blancmange. 

He turned toward his mother, saying, "Ma, let the children bring you some tea—or some wine. You'll feel better if you drink something."

At first, his mother didn't answer. Then, she said in a voice that was so very near breaking, "Don't—don't bring me anything liquid." She dropped another letter into the fire. "I'm afraid that I'll use it to quench this flame, for its tinder is everything that I hold dear." 

Hearing those words, Philip realized one thing: his mother's heart was broken. 

He wasn't sure why this was a surprise to him, but it was an excellent kindling for his own fury. He felt himself grow hot with anger, and his resolve to be calm diminished.

At that moment, a memory flitted to the forefront of his mind.

 _"Daddy, I'm no good at French. Mommy and I've been working on counting to ten for the past week, and I_ still _mess up.'"_

_"Study your lessons, Philip; your mother wants you to learn French, and you need to mind her."_

_"I know, I know—"_

_"Your mother always wanted to learn French, but her father was always so insistent on her studying German, so she never got the chance."_

_"... I'll keep practicing."_

_"Your mother is the best of wives and best of women, and for you, best of mothers. Always do your hardest to obey and respect her, my son."_

Philip dug his fingernails deep into his palms. How _dare_ his father call this steadfast and loving person, "the best of wives and best of women," and disrespect her in such a manner as this? How _dare_ he break the heart that beat solely for him? 

He leaned his head against his mother's shoulder and to his surprise, she pulled him close to her heart and ran her fingers through his curls so tenderly that he suddenly felt a need to repent of his sins and be worthy of so motherly a gesture. This righteous fit ended abruptly when his mother used her other hand to toss another envelope into the fire and Philip found himself darkly hissing, "Pops deserves to burn alongside all those letters."

His mother's hand stopped combing his hair. Against his head, he felt her heart skip a beat as if she just now realized the bad effect her reaction to the Reynolds Pamphlet was having on her children's opinion of their father, who she normally insisted that they respect. 

Philip knew what she was going to say when she opened her mouth, so he quickly intervened with, "Ma, this whole thing makes us _all_ mad—you being upset too is just the icing on the cake."

She resumed her petting after considering this for a moment. "When will your father realize that he doesn't have to go out of his way in folly to protect his legacy?" She pulled him closer. "When will he learn that _we_ are his legacy?"

"Everyone who ever loved Pops _is_ his legacy," echoed Philip. 

His mother closed her eyes. "Everyone who tells his story is his legacy."

Philip sat up straight, the anger roiling in his veins, again. "And _yet_ , Pops goes out and does this shit to 'protect' it!" He bit his tongue, for his mother hated cursing. "Ma, he _cheated_ on you and told the whole world—just to save something he never was gonna lose in the first place!" 

When he was younger, his father was godlike, an idol attached to a man whose reputation and doings preceded him and made Philip shine with pride, even if that meant that as a god, his father was rarely seen by his mortal eyes. 

But upon staring into the glassy depths that were his mother's eyes, Philip again remembered that _this_ was the woman who had raised him, who had been by his side, who his entire childhood had been centered around. She was _real_ , and not a figment of the hope that a deity would notice him. 

And she had been _desecrated_.

But his fingers had not yet begun their incensed twitching before his mother took his hand. "Philip, will you promise me something?"

Something in her tone made him wary, but as he was not in a position to refuse his mother anything, he answered, "What is it?"

"Promise me you'll forgive your father." 

She wouldn't meet his gaze as he retorted, " _Why_?"

"Because," she began, fishing the last letter off of the floor, "your father needs a reminder of who burdens his legacy. Promise me you'll be a Hamilton with pride and shoulder his name like a banner, though now it is torched and of no good use to anyone." With this declaration, she dropped the final letter into the wastebasket and watched it dissolve into ash.

Philip couldn't believe his ears. How could she expect _him_ to forgive a man who had brought his mother so low in spirit? "But _Ma_ —"

"Promise me, Philip."

He closed his eyes and balled his fists so tight that it was painful. "Of course, Ma. For you, I'll do anything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Feedback is always appreciated!**


	3. C | Corn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An inebriated Hamilton buys "flowers" for Eliza.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has gotta be one of the dumbest things I've ever written lol XD
> 
> Some historical inconsistencies that I hope you'll forgive for the sake of plot:  
> 
> 
>   * "The Star-Spangled Banner" and "La Marseillaise" were written and adopted as the anthems of the US and France, respectively, much later than when this fic takes place.
>   * Laurens is supposed to be dead during this time, but, alas, I refuse to kill him!
>   * I also don't know if Mulligans and Lafayette are even around during this time, but let's indulge in the notion for a bit!
> 

> 
> **Feedback is always appreciated!**

If one has spent even a fraction of their time observing inebriated people, one would instantly realize the various ways in which they go about displaying their intoxication. 

Lafayette, ever the Frenchman, would become a flurry of patriotism—for both the new home and the old—slurring together "The Star-Spangled Banner" and "La Marseillaise" together in a fashion that very much scandalized his countrymen and the American barflies that haunted the tavern, where he and his young revolutionary friends often came to exchange news over pints of Sam Adams.

The boisterous Mulligan would become sullen and subdued over much drink, suddenly adopting a prudish air that contrasted greatly from the usually proud testimonies of his exploits.

Poor Laurens liked to fancy himself a man who could hold his liquor but unbeknownst to him, would often become completely and utterly drunk after two pints of ale. Already loud and impulsive, the abolitionist's fervor for his cause and for his friends doubled. Much of his tact, which was typically in short supply, deserted him when in an inebriated state, and therefore, he had no qualms over showing his intense affection for Hamilton very publicly, which, luckily, was reciprocated in kind. 

And Alexander Hamilton, when nursing mugs upon mugs of beer, looped his arms over Laurens' shoulder with more fondness than usual and lost every iota of eloquence he had ever known.

Such was the state he was in when he noticed that the clock in the tavern struck five. He had a fuzzy memory of some _very_ pretty lady—if he had been in his proper state of mind, he would have known that the lady was his wife—telling him to be home before six, so that she could serve dinner at a proper time. 

After shedding an entire ocean's worth of tears at the thought of leaving Laurens, the two clung to each other for an entire half an hour before Mulligan cleaved them apart, kindly shoving Hamilton out the door and telling him that he'd "better mind Eliza."

With that name in mind, he now remembered his wife and stumbled down the streets of New York, vaguely recalling what the exterior of his rented home looked like and peering among the buildings for something that looked similar. In this drunken state, however, he took several wrong turns and found himself wandering about the marketplace. Many of the men and women who had stalls up were packing away their goods for the day, but a certain lad at one of the stands was still lazing about. He had a blank look on his face, as if he was very far away and had not yet realized that it was nigh sunset and time to close up shop.

Hamilton found himself highly intrigued by the goods that this stand presented, for they were colorful and, as intoxicated as he was, looked _just_ like flowers. He walked up to the stall and inspected the items for sale. Many of them were slightly weathered and wilted from sitting out in the blazing sun for so long and were not worth purchasing according to normal folk, but Hamilton, whose mind now possessed a very firm image of Eliza, was determined to buy "flowers" for his wife.

His pet interest was a long yellow stalk of a posy, which was covered with sunny kernels, which he fancied were buds. The "buds" were surrounded by pale green leaves that enveloped the rest of the "flower."

In a slurred voice, Hamilton addressed the boy who tended the stall and asked, "Ya gotanyother colors?"

The boy awoke from his dazed state and seeing that it was the prestigious Secretary of the Treasury, stammered, "We—we have some white ears in the back, sir."

White? No, no, Eliza wouldn't like white flowers—they were too sentimental—weren't they? He was at a loss for a moment before deciding that yellow "flowers" were just fine. 

"White'll begood, thanks, boy." He paused before reaching for his wallet, which, even drunk, he never forgot was stored in his side pocket. 

The boy fished out a single stalk from the crate—where the rest of its kind resided—and handed it to him. "Here you go, Mr. Secretary. You only want one?"

Hamilton pondered the question. Laurens didn't like flowers and Eliza preferred single stems to entire bouquets. 

"One's fine," he replied. He unfolded his wallet. "How much?" 

Seeing that Hamilton was not in his right mind, the boy, who was of a pious nature, felt it wrong to take money from the Treasury Secretary in this state. As he was sure that these wilted products would be thrown to the pigs anyway, he shook his head and said, "It's on the house."

A miser in his own right, Hamilton took the "flower" immediately and staggered down the road, satisfied with his purchase.

He didn't exactly know how he managed to get home, but he presented his gift gladly to Eliza with a cliché that his sober self would never even _dream_ of uttering: "a flower for my flower."

Philip and little Angelica giggled at his funny offering but were silenced with a merry glance from their mother, who pursed her lips in attempts not to burst out laughing herself. 

She put the "flower" in their best vase on the dinner table at once, and the family enjoyed a raucous dinner, during which the children kicked each other under the table in order to keep somber expressions whenever they peeked at their father's gift. 

The next morning, which was Saturday, Hamilton woke up very late, which was good, for he had slept through much of his hangover. He ambled his way into the kitchen to greet his wife and children, but he stopped short when he spotted an offending article on the kitchen table.

"Eliza, my love," he began, staring in confusion, "why is there ... an ear of corn ... in that vase your father gave us?"

Eliza's mouth was sober but her eyes glittered with amusement as she responded, "Why, dear, don't you remember? You bought me that yesterday, calling it 'the most beautiful flower you had ever seen!'"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Feedback is always appreciated!**


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